10. Matteo
Chapter 10
Matteo
“ I have been outbid, or so they tell me.”
All the blood felt like it drained from my body at Bertrand Moro’s words. Even though I sat with control, it felt like I flopped into the chair, almost lifeless. The plan had been for Moro to make a bid for Stella, so we could get her out unharmed. Then we were going to unleash hell on the Nemours. I was determined to tear the heart from that fucking underground club. Destroy it so another woman wouldn’t have to experience what mamma and Stella had.
The Nemours were smart, though, and they were taking every precaution to keep us from Stella. They had lost one dancer to us before. They were not going to lose another. Or so they fucking thought. The Russians were complicating things too. They had an opinion when it came to money, and how much they were willing to lose on one dancer—it wasn’t nearly the price the Nemours were willing to pay. Because this had become personal after what had happened with mamma.
The Russian’s presence also meant they had added manpower. Though, at that moment, the Nemours and the Russians were not in agreement about what should happen to Stella. The Nemours demanded to keep her at all costs, while the Russians wanted to get rid of her.
I jumped from my seat like I’d been electrocuted. These thoughts alone were making me a fiend for the blood of my enemies.
“Phase 2 then.” Saverio stood and fixed his suit. “We ride in four hours.” He left with a trail of soldiers following behind him.
I took the seat again, not sure where to place all the raging emotions inside of me. I’d felt protective over women in the past. The need to shield them was ingrained in my DNA, but nothing to this extreme before. When someone mentioned Stella’s name in a way I didn’t appreciate, a newly born instinct to tear them apart was hard to tame down.
Bertrand Moro started to pace the length of the safe house we’d secured in Paris. It was like the motherfucker was walking the plank, a sharp pivot right before he jumped into the water. I had no issue with Moro, except for the fact that he rented and bought women from the Nemours. He believed their wild stories about the characters they turned some of their women into. Tales that a sane man wouldn’t believe.
“I am a romantic, Signore Fausti!” Moro had made this dramatic statement with the lace around his wrist flaring out when he threw out his hand. “These dancers speak to my heart.” He brought the hand over it. “These women are not of this world. You can understand that, can’t you?” The pleading was all in his eyes, though a touch of it came through his voice.
Moro had that going for him. He seemed to know how to speak to my grandfather, but my grandfather never believed in owning a person, especially a woman, for any reason. If it was a man, Nonno would simply kill him. He always had a reason, though. Always. Moro only wanted some of the dancers for his own collection.
Which was why when this was over, I was going to take care of him. Depending on what he did for us in this situation was what “take care of him” meant. If he didn’t agree to stop buying women, I was going to kill him. But if he scurried away again, like he did when the war between the Faustis and the Nemours first began, letting all the women go, he could live—but back in the darkness again. And someone would be watching him, always watching him, and if he ever so much as dared to be interested in buying flesh again, I’d stab him through the heart, pinning him like a horny fly on a wall with his limp dick out.
He knew this too. That was why he was dripping sweat, and his eyes kept flicking to mine. He didn’t trust me. And he shouldn’t. I had no loyalties to Bertrand Moro. He had no loyalties, except to himself. He proved that when he ran during the first war, since he knew that, one way or another, he would have gotten sucked in. Years later, and the one thing he’d run from came back to haunt him. Maybe karma for being such a fucking slime ball when it came to women.
The Faustis revered women, believed that no man should break something that was smaller than him, or he wasn’t a man. And women were only smaller than us physically; in everything else, they excelled. We knew it. We respected it. We loved and honored it.
“I would appreciate it if you would stop looking at me that way.” He was polite, but with a begrudging edge.
“Tell me, how am I looking at you, Moro?” I said.
“Like your father looks at me. Like your uncle looks at me. Like your grandfather looks at me. Like you are the cat, and I am the mouse. You keep looking at me that way, and my mouth will refuse to work. My brain is sending an overwhelming amount of warning signals to my body. Z ooo . Z ooo . Z ooo !”
Marciano gave a huff of laughter, but I kept my gaze on Moro. “Continue with what you were saying, before.”
“I have been outbid, or so they tell me.”
“Stop pacing.” Zio Romeo sliced him with a look. “In terms you can understand, you are making me seasick .”
Zio Romeo was being testier than usual. He was usually the most amicable of my father’s brothers. He was slow to anger, but light the fuse, and once it contacted the explosives… boom . Still. I made a mental note to find out from Mariano if something else was up with him. Mariano talked to him more— the hair bonded them. As of late, in our family, it seemed like anything was possible. I didn’t want to miss any trouble before it blew up.
“Also, expand on that thought,” Mariano said to Moro.
Moro stopped pacing. Sighed. “Your friend who was just here—Saverio, I believe is his name—understands the assignment, and that time is of the essence, but if I must explain in more detail…the Nemours are onto me. There might be discourse in their abode, but they agree on one thing: not giving the dancer to you . Régine would rather hide her, even if she’s the only one who gets to see her. Boris would rather see her dea?—”
A switch flipped inside of me, and I rose from my chair so fast, Moro pinned himself to the wall and lifted his hands in surrender, not finishing his sentence. “I am just stating facts! That new husband of Régine, he is not all there.” He tapped his temple. “I have met some sick people before, but he eats the cake. Or shall I say…heart. I heard about what yo—what happened to Régine’s previous husband. Ivan. His heart was stolen and delivered to Boris. Boris ate it with ketchup after he shared it with his wolf.” He shivered. “That is dis gusting . Even for me.”
“You would prefer to pair it with olive oil then?” Zio Romeo said. “Enjoy a nice Chianti with it?”
Another huff of laughter from Marciano.
Moro gagged and gave us all a look that clearly meant, you people are not all there. Except…who the fuck was wearing a costume with lace trimmings and a wig, and thought he was a pirate? Not any of us.
The room grew quiet, but a tick ing clock somewhere in the house seemed loud in my ears. I stared at my hands, opening and closing them, trying to clear my head and prepare for the battle to come. The most pressing issue closing in on me: getting Stella out without her losing one hair on her head. Having Moro get her out would have been the easiest solution. We expected they wouldn’t go for it, though. That was why Saverio had other plans in play.
A few minutes later, I could hear piano keys tinkling in the other room.
Maestro.
He was passing the time by creating music. It was an intense sound, at first, then it morphed into something much softer, sweeter. It sounded like the music that was playing while love was being written in the stars. The author of that love being inspired by it.
“That sounds so nice,” Moro said, taking a seat at the table. He called for his sidekick, a man called Firebeard. A knock came, and Firebeard peeked his head in. Moro looked at me. “I have found a catalogue, for your viewing pleasure, sir. Would you mind if my man brought it in?”
I waved a hand.
Firebeard left and then came back with a pamphlet. Moro thumbed through it and then stopped halfway in. He pushed the catalogue closer to me. My eyes were instantly drawn to the woman in the picture. Black hair, pale skin, what seemed like a diamond-encrusted costume. She was in a sensual dance position, her silver eyes staring at the camera like she was entrancing it. A celestial fire.
Silver eyes.
Fuck me. They even made her wear contacts.
It was the first time I’d seen her since that night, and my heart started to beat faster, my palms slick. My stomach felt like it had hit a massive dip in the road.
Wasn’t that how papà described the feeling he got when he’d seen mamma? Even till this day, he said it would come on him out of the blue. It was a feeling that never thinned or disappeared. I was feeling the same. Whatever I’d felt the night I’d first found her seemed amplified.
“ Na muri scrivutu ne stiddi ,” I whispered to the picture, touching the spot over my heart. “ Un amore scritto nelle stelle .” Exactly how I felt about the woman on the page staring back at me, about the song my brother was playing in the background.
A love that is written in the stars…
“And you do not believe she is not of this world?”
It took a minute before I realized Moro was speaking to me. I looked up and met his eyes.
Yeah, I could believe that, but not in the same way Moro and men like him did. I was always taught that all women were not of this world—they’re special to the men who fall for them—just like Stella was special to me. But what I’d learned when I’d first laid eyes on her was that, whatever it was about her that drew me in was not of this world. She carried whatever it was within her. And I’d always follow it. Just like I followed it to find her.
The music continued while I studied the picture. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Off her. When I looked up again, everyone had cleared out of the room. I took a deep breath, and on exhale, the door quietly opened, my father walking through a pool of soft light before he shut it behind him. The light in here was electrical, even though it wasn’t as harsh. It was dimmed to match the mood.
I stood and faced my father. He had a severe look on his face, but in his eyes, I found compassion and understanding. His eyes were as dark as mine, and most people couldn’t find anything in them, not able to get past his barrier. But I could. His eyes were mine.
He set a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “I have been in your shoes,” he said in Italian. “I have stood where you are. When you save Stella, you will save yourself. The feelings that accompany the distance and the reunion will make for a powerful connection that you will never forget or sever. It will bond you to her, and you will feel something powerful—something that will serve as a reminder for the rest of your life.”
With his strong hand on my shoulder, it felt like I stood taller, taller than him even. I was a lot like my grandfather, Luca, but I was my father’s son, and I’d never forget it. I never wanted to. I nodded, solemn, and then looked at the clock on the wall.
My father sighed. “Almost.”
We took the time to bow our heads in silent prayer, and when a knock came at the door, my father made the sign of the cross, starting on my forehead and ending over my heart. Before whoever it was walked in, he pulled me in and hugged me, then told whoever it was to come in.
Lev walked in first, followed by Saverio. We usually followed behind, not giving an enemy the prime position to put a bullet in the back of our skulls. But Lev didn’t care where he walked or what position he was in. Some said he was so fast, a bullet couldn’t keep up. I fucking believed it. Muscles didn’t equal strength or smarts. He had both in spades, even though he wasn’t bulky.
Lev and Saverio shared the same look, though. Like something was off. My look demanded an answer my mouth didn’t have to— tell me.
Saverio looked me in the eye while Lev stood with his back against the wall, arms crossed. “As we discussed, the plan was to cut them off before they made it to the club. Fighting them on the street is easier than fighting them in the underground club—for Stella’s sake.”
“Agreed,” my father and I said at the same time.
We glanced at each other before turning our full attention back to Saverio.
The four of us seemed to stand even straighter when the voice of my grandfather echoed through the hallways. No doubt Saverio had already briefed him—he knew all, or someone would pay—but I was sure he wanted to be present when whatever Saverio was about to tell me was delivered. Lev took a more formal position out of respect. After the papers were signed and the marriage sealed between Maestro and the girl from Lev’s Russian family, Lev followed our traditions. Mamma said whoever controlled him really wanted this marriage to bring the two families together. That, and I knew Lev respected Nonno, which said a lot.
Nonno’s song came to a lingering halt, still echoing throughout the house, before I heard his voice. “You will play this song at the wedding then.” A few of his men entered the room before he did.
He waved a hand, knowing the conversation had started without him, giving permission to continue. It was Lev who did.
“As usual, Boris escorts Stella to the underground club himself. Ivan did it before him. And so on. She is never alone. She is also rushed from one place to another. We were not watching her before the night in Sub Rosa. We do not know if this is normal behavior or not. All we know is that this is their way now. It took a day or two to confirm a difference. The woman we have been watching is not Stella.”
“They put in a proxy,” I said.
Saverio nodded. “We believe, based on a few things, that the proxy is one of Régine’s daughters, Odette.”
“We waited too long to move,” I said.
Saverio shook his head. “The night at Sub Rosa tipped them off. The Nemours and the Russians knew we were going to go after them after what Ivan did to Chloe, then what happened after.”
What happened after. Padrino allowed Massimo to steal Ivan’s heart as payback for what he did to Chloe.
“It is always a rippling effect,” my father said in Italian.
Nonno nodded. “As it seems with the Nemours.”
“Stella.” I spoke her name to Saverio, and he understood.
He shook his head slightly, giving me an answer without using words— we don’t know .
“The ring,” I said.
“Still not getting anything,” he said, the frustration and regret all in his tone.
“They will keep her in a place they are familiar with,” Lev said. “A place where it will be harder for us to get in and out. They know she is at a higher risk underground. Régine will play on your feelings for her and put her in a more dangerous situation. Boris will want a win—by getting rid of her.”
My father squeezed my shoulder. “They suspect we are coming,” he said in Italian, “but they do not know when. There is still an element of surprise.”
“It is what we have,” Lev said, not all that bothered.
We all looked to my grandfather. Even though this was, essentially, my honor, he was the one in charge of the family. His permission was needed to still go on, no matter if it was going to be more dangerous or not.
He used his fingertips to drum the table for a second, studying my eyes. He nodded, then stood, clasping me on the shoulder. He walked me out of the room, the men following behind. He started to sing halfway out the door, and he didn’t stop until we got close to the underground club.